


Mistral

by irisbleufic



Series: Lyra, Burning 'Verse (& Related Occurrences) [2]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Haunting, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, Multi, Music, POV Outsider, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7364362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPfmpB65joU">
    <i>So we already wrecked the rental car / and I've already lost my way</i>
  </a>
</p><p>
  <span class="small">[This is a long-promised epilogue to <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3444437">Lyra, Burning / Bending the Light / Lodestar</a></i>.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistral

**January 5, 1886**

_So we already wrecked the rental car,_  
_and I’ve already lost my way._  
_My feet entombed in this tourist bar_  
_for a day anyway._

Chester couldn't get that goddamn sticky spot off the far-right corner of the bar. _His_ right.

So that's just where he was standing, scrubbing away with Lydia's favorite rag worn thin, when Emmett Brown strolled through the doors with his hat in hand. He placed it back on his head, touched the brim apologetically, and then removed it again before taking a seat in one of the stools closest to Chester. It was well past midnight, maybe nigh on one. He and Marty must've just gotten in from San Francisco earlier. Chester set the rag aside and shook Emmett's hand.

“Got your boy there and back, all safe and sound?” he asked cordially. “And your supplies?”

“The supplies are fine,” said Emmett, gesturing at the whiskey he'd developed a taste (and stomach, too, bless his heart) for as Chester waved an empty shot-glass under his nose. “Marty and I just finished stowing them, in fact. He's worn-out; I stayed home a while till he fell asleep.” His expression was troubled as Chester filled his glass. “It's _him_ I'm worried about.”

Chester had the feeling he might know why. “San Fran a bit too much for him, is that it?”

“We ran into some trouble at the Lodestar,” replied Emmett, quietly, sucking down half the shot before Chester could tell him to take it easy. “You heard of it? Not the roughest dive we could've chosen our first night out, but there was...a certain piece of local riff-raff armed with a knife.”

Gaping, Chester helped himself to the rest of Emmett's shot, and then quickly refilled the glass.

“Sure I know it. Been around almost twenty years at _least_. Had me a fine brew or two there, and them dancin' girls weren't half bad either. Emmett, that ain't the important part in your story. It's the part about the riff-raff with the knife. Do you mean to tell me you found...?”

“We didn't capture him,” Emmett sighed. “We didn't even _report_ him. He was in disguise—or, at least, he was as in-disguise as a low-life of his caliber can get. He's got a wife now, running for his life.” He contemplated the shot-glass and then, with a shrug, downed its contents. “Marty's still pretty shaken, though. He's the one Tannen threatened. I got there as he made his exit.”

“You've said the kid suffers night-terrors as is,” Chester sighed. “That's a tough one, Emmett. Mighty tough.” He thought about how he used to get Joey through that. “Let him cry it out.”

Emmett shook his head. “I ought to've been armed,” he said darkly. “Shot Tannen where he stood.”

“Now, Emmett, that would've been mighty rash of you,” Chester consoled him, patting the back of Emmett's hand, which was splayed right over the sticky spot. “Last I was there, the place was crowded as Satan's front parlor. What if you'd hit somebody else while you were at it?”

“Wise words, Chester,” Emmett allowed, only looking a little heavy-lidded. “Another half.”

“You'll have the mother of all hangovers come dawn,” Chester warned. “Marty'll wonder.”

Emmett made a frustrated gesture, grabbing the bottle out of Chester's unsuspecting hands, neatly filling the glass halfway. “Marty can wonder all he likes,” he muttered. “Let a man drink.”

“I wonder about you sometimes,” Chester told him, putting the bottle back on the bar. “Always have. Seems to me you're rougher around the edges than you let on. Odd for a man of letters.”

“Man of _science_ ,” Emmett corrected him, holding his shot-glass up to the light. “Cheers.”

“That there's the nail in your coffin,” snapped Chester, taking the glass away from him. “Cheers.”

“We'll never make it back,” said Emmett, softly, staring past him. “Gravest failure of my career.” He laughed, then, a strangely choked and regretful sound. “ _Grave_ indeed. Literally.”

“Now you're just talkin' nonsense like you was that night you insisted you was from, what was it, the future or some such,” Chester reminded him fondly. “Is that where you ain't gettin' back to?”

“We'll all of us get to the future,” Emmett replied, contemplating the sticky spot. “Just not necessarily the one we expect.” He scratched at it, pulling up a splinter. “I owe Marty as secure a future as I can manage for us out here,” he said, pitching it on the floor. “Hence those supplies.”

“Mayor's mighty keen on you keepin' your promises on the courthouse,” Chester reminded him. “Why not make it a secure one for all of us? Didn't you say you knew some young man out New Jersey way who could use the spare cash? Still think you could get him out here for a spell?”

“Who, Tesla?” Emmett asked, incredulously, as if he'd completely forgotten. “ _Impossible_. He's got a brand-new company to look out for. Wasn't fair of Edison to cheat him like that.”

Chester knew who Thomas Edison was. You'd have to be a damn fool not to know _that_.

Before he could ask Emmett if there was anything he could do to help—send Lydia over with some leftover Christmas pie the next day, maybe, and Joey with some of his best coffee as an apology for how stale the pie had gone—a sleepy-looking Marty McFly, who'd thrown on little more than his trousers, boots, and hat, stumbled through the front doors. He blinked uncertainly at the them.

“What the _hell_ , Doc?” he asked, scratching his elbow, yawning. “It's past your bedtime.”

Emmett swiveled around just about as fast as _any_ of the chagrined husbands Chester'd ever had dragged away by the ear between midnight and the witching hour. “Marty. _Oh_. I'm—”

“Shooting the shit with your buddy here,” said Marty, walking over to insinuate himself on the stool next to Emmett. “I get it. Bet he wants an update on San Francisco, huh.” Marty turned Doc to face him with a concerned hand on the guy's chin, squinting. “Or shitting the shots, maybe?”

“I swear on my old granddad's grave I cut him off at one and a half,” declaimed Chester, solemnly.

“ _Doc_ ,” Marty sighed, one hand clutching Emmett's shoulder. “I know you're stressed from the trip and all, but this—” Marty reconsidered his statement. “Nah, wait. Maybe you do need it.”

Chester gave Emmett the fish-eye over Marty's head. The boy was practically clinging to him now, partway off his own stool and touchy-feely enough to make Chester wonder where this was headed.

“As it happens, I was just on my way out,” Emmett reassured him, leaning so close the words might as well have been a kiss. He steadied Marty on his feet as he slid the rest of the way out of his stool, and then got up with a wince. “Thank goodness you're here. I'll need a hand getting home.”

Returning Emmett's parting hat-tip with something like a salute, Chester got back to scrubbing.

“You take care of him now!” he shouted after them at the last second. “That goes for you both!”

 

**March 15, 1886**

_So lay me out on the cobblestones_  
_and unfurl this aching jib._  
_The streets all built on ancient bones_  
_and the crib of the ribs._

James felt like he was watching some scene out of one of his nightmares unfold in the _last_ place he'd ever want to see it happen. Annabel stood frozen behind the counter, waiting to see what would McFly would say next. The out-of-towner, who'd been around for almost a week and couldn't leave fast _enough_ , wore a sneer he'd just as soon shoot right off the fucker's face.

“I said,” repeated the gentleman, too much of a dandy to have even _made_ such an outrageous claim without coming off as a regular hypocrite, “what do you _say_ to that?”

Marty folded his arms, shifting his stance a little, the clothes Annabel had been ringing up for him forgotten. “You might have to repeat yourself,” he said carefully. “I might've misheard. Because, if I did, my response will be pretty different from the one I'm tempted to make otherwise.”

James, no fool, could see Marty's hand already hovering at his belt. His poncho concealed all.

“I said,” repeated the out-of-towner, fussing with one corner of his waxed moustache, “that your master has a thing or two to learn about keeping you in line. Didn't ask your opinion on the work he did for me this morning. Didn't ask you to get me smacked with another five dollars owed.”

“He's overworked,” said Marty, edging a step nearer; behind him, Annabel gasped and flattened herself against the shelves backing the counter, scrambling for the Derringer, which James, once it had been released from the evidence stores, had brought for her to keep. “He's been making a lot of improvements to the smithy to make it more livable, and he's been putting in long hours at the courthouse to boot. He's lost a lot of sleep. He missed a few nails in your horse's shoes, so I offered to do the clean-up. Detail-work from me comes cheaper than it does from him, I promise.”

The out-of-towner gave Marty an appraising look. “Five dollars, plus a kiss to make it better?”

James drew his Smith & Wesson, training it directly on the no-good joker's temple. “This ain't the whorehouse,” he said. “You leave my friend here alone, apologize to the lady, and move along.”

James's mistake, however, was taking his eye off McFly for even a second. The kid had reflexes so fast he couldn't fathom what kind of rough, on-the-run upbringing had even resulted in them.

City slicker was down for the count, moaning and rubbing his jaw, and James's pistol now pointed at nothing. Marty gave James a sheepish look, his gaze flitting to Annabel, who had the Derringer pointed at exactly where the stranger's _other_ temple had been. James grinned at her.

“Maybe, uh,” said Marty, rubbing the back of his neck as the guy on the floor started to curse, “maybe put those away. Guess you can haul this guy in for disturbing the peace, though?”

James tucked his revolver back in his belt, bending to restrain the ornery tourist. “No use in readin' the likes of you any rights, what when I reckon you think the likes of _me_ ain't got none.” Marty and Doc Brown had brought some strange notions with them from out East, but _he_ of all people knew that acknowledging that people were still people even in the worst of circumstances had value. He'd left the little handwritten booklet on his desk, though, and didn't feel too bad about its absence in this particular arrest. "Come on, now. Up with you."

Marty didn't leave. He waited until James had gotten the man to his feet, his hands bound behind him with a piece of ribbon supplied by Annabel from the haberdashery stock, and returned from leaving him for the rest of the deputy's staff to deal with. James folded his arms across his chest.

“Leave law enforcement to the professionals, maybe?” he implored Marty. “Just a thought.”

“Ain't done no harm, ultimately,” said Annabel, although one look was enough to tell her she needed to goddamn back him up on this. “But Jim's got a salient point. There's no telling what he might've done, no telling who might've shot whom.” The more she'd read with Marty's patient assistance, her vocabulary had gotten increasingly (and endearingly) more complex.

“I heard there was a spot of bother down here,” said Seamus, peering out from between the farthest aisles. “Came over from the smithy to see for myself. Brought a friend along for the ride, even.”

Doc Brown was only a few steps behind him, hands in pockets, frowning deeply. “Marty?”

“I'm _sorry_!” Marty exclaimed. “That asshole wasn't happy with the work we did!”

“That arsehole wasn't happy with a hell of a lot more, for starters,” said Seamus. “Drop it.”

James stepped back to join Annabel at the counter, whistling under as Doc Brown got all up in Marty's space and just _hugged_ him hard as anything. You'd have thought actual shots had been fired.

“C'mon, now,” sighed Seamus, doing his best disgusted-cousin impression. “Maggie'll fuss enough for us all. And you haven't been on the wrong side of her temper when she's been kept waitin'.”

“Waiting?” Marty echoed, but he didn't let go of Doc Brown. “You mean she's in town today?”

“Yes, for God's fuckin' _sake_ ,” said Seamus, exasperated. “We left her in the smithy with Will.”

“Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Wilson,” said Doc Brown, finally letting go of Marty, tipping his hat to each of them in kind. “Allow me to apologize on Marty's behalf for his part in the disturbance.”

“I'd have done what he did if that idiot had gone on minute longer,” James said. “Move along.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Marty, earnestly, following Seamus and Doc toward the door. “Sorry about—”

“You forgot your purchases,” said Annabel, hastily wrapping the clothes. “Want me to hold 'em?”

“You do that,” Marty agreed, waving as he left. “We're having lunch, I guess. I'll come back later!”

James watched the peculiar trio leave, wondering just when Hill Valley's queer idea of family would finally put them all on the map. Annabel tapped him on the shoulder, so he turned around.

“Hey there,” she said, stroking his cheek. “You ain't none too rattled by all that, are you?”

“I ain't none too rattled by nothin' unless it's you,” he told his wife, kissing her just because.

 

**May 1, 1886**

_Won’t the mistral_  
_blow it all away?_  
_Won't the mistral_  
_blow away?_

“For God's sake, Willie,” Maggie crooned, rocking the fussy child with all her might. “William, my love. _Will_. Calm yourself down. Your poor mother's got to cook enough for an army!”

William stopped wailing and gave her a pinched look that, regrettably, she recognized all too well as one she often saw in the mirror. “ _No_!” he hiccuped, and got right back to sobbing.

“Lord have mercy on us,” Maggie muttered under her breath, depositing the boy back in his new cradle, as he'd outgrown the old one a couple of months back. “I'll just be ignorin' you now.”

Emmett came inside, hat already clutched to his chest. “Hello, Maggie,” he said kindly, sparing a glance for Will, who shut up and stuck his fingers in his mouth, the little _bastard_. “Marty's teaching your husband how to shoe Miranda. He won't need to haul into town anymore for that.”

“And miss your sparkling wit?” Maggie asked, smiling at him. “I think not. He'll make the trip.”

“Thought I'd see if you needed a hand with supper,” said Emmett. “No undue meddling this time.”

“I've got it in hand,” said Maggie. “The meddler _I'm_ worried about is that youngster there.”

Emmett set his hat aside on the table, and then went over to the cradle. “What's this I hear from your mother?” he asked, swinging a wide-eyed Will up in his arms without hesitation. “Tears?”

“No,” said Will, solemnly, breaking into a grin as Maggie looked on. “Mama, _no_. Good.”

“Oh, my _arse_ you've been good,” Maggie muttered, already back to slicing the potatoes.

“It seems to me you've been a handful,” said Emmett, taking a seat at the table, settling Will in his lap. “Your mother can't concentrate if you put up a fuss. Me and Marty and your father heard you all the way out in the barn. Sounds travels far and fast, young man. Would you like to know how?”

Maggie had to tune out Emmett's litany after a while, as she understood little of it. Still, anything that kept her troublesome son so raptly occupied couldn't be all bad, and she swore he'd be years ahead of the others in school by the time he got there—that is, if they ever replaced the teacher.

“Have you heard anything to that end?” she said aloud, and then realized she'd have to clarify what she meant. “About the schoolteacher, I mean, rest her soul. Who's going to take her place?”

Emmett blinked at Maggie in such bewilderment that she felt sorry for even attempting conversation, but he recovered soon enough. “Oh, you mean Miss Clayton. No.” He fixed his gaze back on Will for a second, letting the boy make a grab for his hair. “I haven't heard anything.”

“Well, the children of this town are the ones who'll suffer if we go on like this for much longer,” said Maggie, unable to keep her opinions to herself any longer. “I'd have a word with Mayor Hubert myself, except we all know how much good that'd do. About as much as Seamus learnin' how to shoe! Listen to me, Emmett: you and Marty are clever, clever as they come. Do I really have to spell it all out for you, imaginary blackboard and all? I'll do it in vegetables if I must.”

Wincing, Emmett disentangled Will's fingers from the flyaway disaster on his head. “Maggie, I hope you'll forgive my temporary inability to think, but this young man's grip is...impressive.”

Maggie sighed and put down her knife. “The two of you ought to split your time between smithy and schoolhouse,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I don't see why you always need to be in the same damned place at once. I understand the first flush of true love and all that nonsense, _believe_ me I do, but before long you'll both want some peace. Stop being so selfish.”

“Selfish!” Will echoed, letting go of Emmett's hair as if Maggie had commanded him to do so.

Emmett set the boy down on the floor, holding onto Will's hands so he could toddle in place.

“I'll have a word with the Mayor,” he said, rising as Will decided he wanted to move forward.

“There's a smart man,” said Maggie, dumping the potato slices handful after handful into the pot. “Besides, you promised that fancy telescope of Miss Clayton's over to the cause. High time you made good on your word, _Doctor_. As for Marty, well, he's done a decent enough job teaching Annabel her letters. He's patient with the young,” she added, winking at Emmett.

They spent the next thirty minutes or so in companionable silence, Emmett letting Will wander wherever he liked while Maggie finally got the stew over the flames. Marty and Seamus came in looking a bit worse for wear, probably because Seamus had the worst aim on God's green earth and Marty had to keep prying out the nails for him to re-hammer. Maggie knew what was what.

“Looks like you three are having a bit of fun in here,” panted Seamus. “Maybe _too_ much.”

Marty had already made his way over to where Emmett was sitting on the floor with Will, who was showing off his wooden blocks and the faceless rag-doll Maggie had made for him. He crouched.

“Those are some cool toys you've got there,” Marty told Will, making the boy giggle with pride.

 _Cool_. Maggie turned the phrase over and over in her head as she stirred; Seamus watched.

“Yes,” Will agreed, handing the doll to Marty, covering his mouth with a gasp, waiting for a verdict.

“You _bet_ ,” said Marty, patting the doll on the head before handing it back. “Hey, Doc.”

“Hey yourself,” Emmett replied, grinning wryly at the love of his life. “Would you like to hear about Maggie's proposition to the Mayor? It concerns both of us a great deal, and I think...”

Maggie tuned him out again, turning away from the scene, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Seamus had wrapped both arms around her waist and whispered, “You're a sly one, are ya, Mags?”

“No more sly than I had to be, takin' up with McFlys in the first place,” she said with satisfaction.

 

**July 4, 1886**

_So it’s me and you and the baby boy_  
_and a fourth to share the weight._  
_We’re eking out a little joy_  
_from what awaits . . ._

“I think you ought to go out and dance with him,” said Seamus, decisively. “He looks lonely up there playin' on that, er...” He waved his hand at the stage. “Whatever that instrument is.”

“It's _kind of_ a clarinet,” Marty explained, “but whoever made it has...never seen one.”

“Well, I don't know one of those things from another unless it's a fiddle,” Seamus said self-deprecatingly. “After all, I'm Irish. You, on the other hand, can play a mean enough banjo.”

“Aren't we done with stereotype jokes?” Marty asked, scratching the tip of his nose, which was flaking from the burn he'd gotten a couple of weeks back taking the children on a rock-hunting expedition. “We oughta lay off. Doc doesn't like it when you and Maggie start in on Germans.”

“I can be civilized, but you keep an eye on Mags,” replied Seamus. “She'll start in on anyone.”

They watched more than half the town dance a few more numbers, Maggie and Will included. The boy's shrieks of laughter were audible above the music, but no one seemed to mind. Emmett looked increasingly exhausted, Seamus couldn't help but note. Still working himself to the bone.

“Maybe you're right,” Marty said while the crowd cheered and the band-leader announced a break. “I'll go get him some lemonade or something. He'll probably ask for whiskey, but I shouldn't let him dance drunk. That's just asking for trouble, isn't it?”

“It's asking for trouble after last year, which you missed,” Seamus agreed. “No sarsaparilla, either.”

“Not as much trouble as the Festival last fall, either,” Marty said, and then: “I'm glad we survived.”

“It seems to me you almost didn't,” Seamus confessed, folding his arms uncomfortably. “I couldn't have said the half of what was runnin' through my head at the time, so I said as much as I could.”

Marty nodded slowly, as if he understood. “If I'd known then about—about how haunted—”

“Hauntings are for the living,” said Seamus, shrugging. “At least if you're haunted, you know you're alive.” He fixed Marty with a calculating expression. “Are you goin' to him or not?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Marty admitted. “You seemed pretty...pensive, is all.”

 _Oh, Martin, how we've missed you a while_ , Seamus thought, wondering where their ghosts had lately gone. Marty hadn't said anything about the schoolmistress of late. _Off with Clara?_

“Hey,” Marty said, shaking Seamus gently. “I miss them, too, you know. Every day, if I'm honest.”

“They'll come back, just you wait,” replied Seamus, clapping Marty on the back. “They always do.”

 

**September 3, 1886**

_Won't the mistral_  
_blow it all away?_  
_(Won't it blow it down?)_  
_Won't it blow, won't it blow,_  
_won't it blow?_

Night in the desert was chilly, always chillier than it ought to be. The breeze picked up, blew through everything. Blew sand in nighttime's unsuspecting eyes, blew it at the very stars.

_“You said there was something I ought to see out here, is that it?”_

_“There's something you ought to see everywhere, young man. Look.”_

Marty adjusted the telescope, pointing to the lens, helping a dark-skinned girl of about nine to peer through. “You're looking for the one that's got a blue-greenish tint to it. You'll also see a red one.”

Emmett, doing his best to keep the crowd of about twelve other eager children occupied, pointed to a spot not that far off from the one Marty was examining with the pupil whose turn it was. “If you look over here, you'll have no trouble spotting the Pleiades unaided! Aren't they bright?”

_“I never had time for that bookish kind of stuff. Now I feel cheated!”_

_“Nobody cheated you of anything except the obvious. Pay attention.”_

The girl gasped, pointing, eye still to the telescope. “I want to show Tia Quintana!”

“If she wants to have a look, tell her she can come out next week,” Marty said. “She'll probably be interested in how the lenses work anyway. She was curious when she worked on the windows.”

Meanwhile, Emmett had a cluster of children staring up at yet another bright spot in the sky. “And right _there_ is Jupiter,” he said with admiration. “Perfectly visible without that contraption!”

The children _ooh_ ed and _ahhh _ed loudly. “Is Jupiter a star?” one of them asked.__

__“Is Jupiter a _star_?” Emmett echoed, his expression comical as the breeze caught what hair wasn't tucked under his hat, tossing it every which way. “Gracious, no! It's a _planet_!”_ _

__“Hey, Doc,” Marty called over his shoulder, adjusting the telescope again for Quintana's niece. “Take it easy on them. I'm pretty sure I didn't know the difference till I was about their age.”_ _

_“This is all truly picturesque, but what is it I'm supposed to notice?”_

 _“You're more of a dunderhead than your family have led me to believe.”_

__“We're a lot of different ages,” one of the kids—a boy—piped up. “I'm six. Ceci's _ten_.”_ _

__“Yeah, Jonathan,” said Marty, mildly, tugging Ceci back from the telescope by her shoulders. “I know.” He sent Ceci, already babbling about what she'd seen, dashing back to the others. “Next?”_ _

__“Who should I send over?” Emmett asked Marty, catching Jonathan by the back of his plaid collar._ _

__“Let him go,” Marty said, half-smiling as Emmett released him. “That's some real enthusiasm!”_ _

_“This isn't really an astronomy lesson, is it, Miss Clayton? Not for me.”_

_“It's not a lesson, Martin. It's a reminder. Good ones are in short supply._

__Night in the desert was chilly, always chillier than Marty had expected it would be. The breeze picked up, blew sand in everything: his eyes, the children's, the telescope lens. He glanced at Doc, who'd come over to stand beside him while Ceci kept the others busy by pointing out Cygnus._ _

__“I was thinking about swinging by to see her on the way home,” Marty said softly. “You know?”_ _

__Emmett nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon line, beneath which Lyra lay dreaming. “Yes, I do.”_ _


End file.
